"Dad?" "Yes?" "I know there wasn't really a sixth borough. I mean, objectively." "Are you an optimist or a pessimist?" "I can't remember. Which?" "Do you know what those words mean?" "Not really." "An optimist is positive and hopeful. A pessimist is negative and cynical." "I'm an optimist." "Well, that's good, because there's no irrefutable evidence. There's nothing that could convince someone who doesn't want to be convinced. But there is an abundance of clues that would give the wanting believer something to hold on to." "Like what?" "Like the peculiar fossil record of Central Park. Like the incongruous pH of the reservoir. Like the placement of certain tanks at the zoo, which correspond to the holes left by the gigantic hooks that pulled the park from borough to borough." "Jose."
"There is a tree—just twenty-four paces due east of the entrance to the merry-go-round—into whose trunk are carved two names. There is no record of them in the phone books or censuses. They are absent from all hospital and tax and voting documentation. There is no evidence whatsoever of their existence, other than the proclamation on the tree. Here's a fact you might find fascinating: no less than five percent of the names carved into the trees of Central Park are of unknown origin." "That is fascinating."
"As all of the Sixth Borough's documents floated away with the Sixth Borough, we will never be able to prove that those names belonged to residents of the Sixth Borough, and were carved when Central Park still resided there, instead of in Manhattan. Some people believe they are made-up names and, to take the doubt a step further, that the gestures of love were made-up gestures. Others believe other things." "What do you believe?"
"Well, it's hard for anyone, even the most pessimistic of pessimists, to spend more than a few minutes in Central Park without feeling that he or she is experiencing some tense in addition to the present, right?" "I guess." "Maybe we're just missing things we've lost, or hoping for what we want to come. Or maybe it's the residue of the dreams from that night the park was moved. Maybe we miss what those children had lost, and hope for what they hoped for."
"And what about the Sixth Borough?" "What do you mean?" "What happened to it?" "Well, there's a gigantic hole in the middle of it where Central Park used to be. As the island moves across the planet, it acts like a frame, displaying what lies beneath it." "Where is it now?" "Antarctica." "Really?"
"The sidewalks are covered in ice, the stained glass of the public library is straining under the weight of the snow. There are frozen fountains in frozen neighborhood parks, where frozen children are frozen at the peaks of their swings—the frozen ropes holding them in flight. Livery horses—" "What's that?" "The horses that pull the carriages in the park." "They're inhumane." "They're frozen mid-trot. Flea-market vendors are frozen mid-haggle. Middle-aged women are frozen in the middle of their lives. The gavels of frozen judges are frozen between guilt and innocence. On the ground are the crystals of the frozen first breaths of babies, and those of the last gasps of the dying. On a frozen shelf, in a closet frozen shut, is a can with a voice in it."
"Dad?" "Yeah?" "This isn't an interruption, but are you done?" "The end." "That story was really awesome." "I'm glad you think so." "Awesome.
"Dad?" "Yeah?" "I just thought of something. Do you think any of those things I dug up in Central Park were actually from the Sixth Borough?"
He shrugged his shoulders, which I loved.
"Dad?" "Yeah, buddy?" "Nothing."
MY FEELINGS
I was in the guest room when it happened. I was watching the television and knitting you a white scarf. The news was on. Time was passing like a hand waving from a train that I wanted to be on. You'd only just left for school, and I was already waiting for you. I hope you never think about anything as much as I think about you.
I remember they were interviewing the father of a missing girl.
I remember his eyebrows. I remember his sadly cleanly shaven face.
Do you still believe that she will be found alive?
I do.
Sometimes I was looking at the television.
Sometimes I was looking at my hands knitting your scarf.
Sometimes out the window at your window.
Are there any new leads in the case?
Not to my knowledge.
But you continue to believe.
Yes.
What would it take for you to give up?
Why was it necessary to torture him?
He touched his forehead and said, It would take a body.
The woman asking the questions touched her ear.
She said, I am sorry. One second.
She said, Something has happened in New York.
The father of the missing girl touched his chest and looked past the camera. At his wife? At someone he didn't know? At something he wanted to see?
Maybe it sounds strange, but I didn't feel anything when they showed the burning building. I wasn't even surprised. I kept knitting for you, and I kept thinking about the father of the missing girl. He kept believing.
Smoke kept pouring from a hole in the building.
Black smoke.
I remember the worst storm of my childhood. From my window I saw the books pulled from my father's shelves. They flew. A tree that was older than any person tipped away from our house. But it could have been the other way.
When the second plane hit, the woman who was giving the news started to scream.
A ball of fire rolled out of the building and up.
One million pieces of paper filled the sky. They stayed there, like a ring around the building. Like the rings of Saturn. The rings of coffee staining my father's desk. The ring Thomas told me he didn't need. I told him he wasn't the only one who needed.
The next morning my father had us carve our names into the stump of the tree that fell away from our house. We were giving thanks.
Your mother called.
Are you watching the news?
Yes.
Have you heard from Thomas?
No.
I haven't heard from him either. I'm worried.
Why are you worried?
I told you. I haven't heard from him.
But he's at the store.
He had a meeting in that building and I haven't heard from him.
I turned my head and thought I would vomit.
I dropped the phone, ran to the toilet, and vomited.
I wouldn't ruin the rug. That's who I am.
I called your mother back.
She told me you were at home. She had just spoken to you.
I told her I would go over and watch you.
Don't let him see the news.
OK.
If he asks anything, just let him know that it will be OK.
I told her, It will be OK.
She said, The subways are a mess. I'm going to walk home. I should be there in an hour.
She said, I love you.
She had been married to your father for twelve years. I had known her for fifteen years. It was the first time she told me she loved me.
That was when I knew that she knew.
I ran across the street.
The doorman said you'd gone up ten minutes before.
He asked if I was all right.
I nodded.
What happened to your arm?
I looked at my arm. It was bleeding through my shirt. Had I fallen and not noticed? Had I been scratching it? That was when I knew that I knew.
No one answered the door when I rang, so I used my key.
I called to you.
Oskar!
You were silent, but I knew you were there. I could feel you.
Oskar!
I looked in the coat closet. I looked behind the sofa. A Scrabble board was on the coffee table. Words were running into each other. I went to your room. It was empty. I looked in your closet. You weren't there. I went to your parents' room. I knew you were somewhere. I looked in your father's closet. I touched the tuxedo that was over his chair. I put my hands in its pockets. He had his father's
hands. Your grandfather's hands. Will you have those hands? The pockets reminded me.
I went back to your room and lay down on your bed.
I couldn't see the stars on your ceiling because the lights were on.
I thought about the walls of the house I grew up in. My fingerprints.
When the walls collapsed, my fingerprints collapsed.
I heard you breathing beneath me.
Oskar?
I got on the ground. On my hands and knees.
Is there room for two under there?
No.
Are you sure?
Positive.
Would it be all right if I tried?
I guess.
I could only barely squeeze myself under the bed.
We lay there on our backs. There wasn't enough room to turn to face each other. None of the light could reach us.
How was school?
It was OK.
You got there on time?
I was early.
So you waited outside?
Yeah.
What did you do?
I read.
What?
What what?
What did you read?
A Brief History of Time.
Is it any good?
That's not really a question you can ask about it.
And your walk home?
It was OK.
It's beautiful weather.
Yeah.
I can't remember more beautiful weather than this.
That's true.
It's a shame to be inside.
I guess so.
But here we are.
I wanted to turn to face him, but I couldn't. I moved my hand to touch his hand.
They let you out of school?
Practically immediately.
Do you know what happened?
Yeah.
Have you heard from Mom or Dad?
Mom.
What did she say?
She said everything was fine and she would be home soon.
Dad will be home soon, too. Once he can close up the store.
Yeah.
You pressed your palms into the bed like you were trying to lift it off us. I wanted to tell you something, but I didn't know what. I just knew there was something I needed to tell you.
Do you want to show me your stamps?
No thank you.
Or we could do some thumb wars.
Maybe later.
Are you hungry?
No.
Do you want to just wait here for Mom and Dad to come home?
I guess so.
Do you want me to wait here with you?
It's OK.
Are you sure?
Positive.
Can I please, Oskar?
OK.
Sometimes I felt like the space was collapsing onto us. Someone was on the bed. Mary jumping. Your father sleeping. Anna kissing me. I felt buried. Anna holding the sides of my face. My father pinching my cheeks. Everything on top of me.
When your mother came home, she gave you such a fierce hug. I wanted to protect you from her.
She asked if your father had called.
No.
Are there any messages on the phone?
No.
You asked her if your father was in the building for a meeting.
She told you no.
You tried to find her eyes, and that was when I knew that you knew.
She called the police. It was busy. She called again. It was busy. She kept calling. When it wasn't busy, she asked to speak to someone. There was no one to speak to.
You went to the bathroom. I told her to control herself. At least in front of you.
She called the newspapers. They didn't know anything.
She called the fire department.
No one knew anything.
All afternoon I knitted that scarf for you. It grew longer and longer.
Your mother closed the windows, but we could still smell the smoke.
She asked me if I thought we should make posters.
I said it might be a good idea.
That made her cry, because she had been depending on me.
The scarf grew longer and longer.
She used the picture from your vacation. From only two weeks before. It was you and your father. When I saw it, I told her she shouldn't use a picture that had your face in it. She said she wasn't going to use the whole picture. Only your father's face.
I told her, Still, it isn't a good idea.
She said, There are more important things to worry about.
Just use a different picture.
Let it go, Mom.
She had never called me Mom.
There are so many pictures to choose from.
Mind your own business.
This is my business.
We were not angry at each other.
I don't know how much you understood, but probably you understood everything.
She took the posters downtown that afternoon. She filled a rolling suitcase with them. I thought of your grandfather. I wondered where he was at that moment. I didn't know if I wanted him to be suffering.
She took a stapler. And a box of staples. And tape. I think of those things now. The paper, the stapler, the staples, the tape. It makes me sick. Physical things. Forty years of loving someone becomes staples and tape.
It was just the two of us. You and me.
We played games in the living room. You made jewelry. The scarf grew longer and longer. We went for a walk in the park. We didn't talk about what was on top of us. What was pinning us down like a ceiling. When you fell asleep with your head on my lap, I turned on the television.
I lowered the volume until it was silent.
The same pictures over and over.
Planes going into buildings.
Bodies falling.
People waving shirts out of high windows.
Planes going into buildings.
Bodies falling.
Planes going into buildings.
People covered in gray dust.
Bodies falling.
Buildings falling.
Planes going into buildings.
Planes going into buildings.
Buildings falling.
People waving shirts out of high windows.
Bodies falling.
Planes going into buildings.
Sometimes I felt your eyelids flickering. Were you awake? Or dreaming?
Your mother came home late that night. The suitcase was empty.
She hugged you until you said, You're hurting me.
She called everyone your father knew, and everyone who might know something. She told them, I'm sorry to wake you. I wanted to shout into her ear, Don't be sorry!
She kept touching her eyes, although there were no tears.
They thought there would be thousands of injured people. Unconscious people. People without memories. They thought there would be thousands of bodies. They were going to put them in an iceskating rink.
Remember when we went skating a few months ago and I turned around, because I told you that watching people skate gave me a headache? I saw rows of bodies under the ice.
Your mother told me I could go home.
I told her I didn't want to.
She said, Have something to eat. Try to sleep.
I won't be able to eat or sleep.
She said, I need to sleep.
I told her I loved her.
That made her cry, because she had been depending on me.
I went back across the street.
Planes going into buildings.
Bodies falling.
Planes going into buildings.
Buildings falling.
Planes going into buildings.
Planes going into buildings.
Planes going into buildings.
When I no longer had to be strong in front of you, I became very weak. I brought myself to the ground, which was where I belon
ged. I hit the floor with my fists. I wanted to break my hands, but when it hurt too much, I stopped. I was too selfish to break my hands for my only child.
Bodies falling.
Staples and tape.
I didn't feel empty. I wished I'd felt empty.
People waving shirts out of high windows.
I wanted to be empty like an overturned pitcher. But I was full like a stone.
Planes going into buildings.
I had to go to the bathroom. I didn't want to get up. I wanted to lie in my own waste, which is what I deserved. I wanted to be a pig in my own filth. But I got up and went to the bathroom. That's who I am.
Bodies falling.
Buildings falling.
The rings of the tree that fell away from our house.
I wanted so much for it to be me under the rubble. Even for a minute.
A second. It was as simple as wanting to take his place. And it was more complicated than that.
The television was the only light.
Planes going into buildings.
Planes going into buildings.
I thought it would feel different. But even then I was me.
Oskar, I'm remembering you onstage in front of all of those strangers.
I wanted to say to them, He's mine. I wanted to stand up and shout, That beautiful person is mine! Mine!
When I was watching you, I was so proud and so sad.
Alas. His lips. Your songs.
When I looked at you, my life made sense. Even the bad things made sense. They were necessary to make you possible.
Alas. Your songs.
My parents' lives made sense.
My grandparents'.
Even Anna's life.
But I knew the truth, and that's why I was so sad.
Every moment before this one depends on this one.
Everything in the history of the world can be proven wrong in one moment.
Your mother wanted to have a funeral, even though there was no body. What could anyone say?
We all rode in the limousine together. I could not stop touching you. I could not touch you enough. I needed more hands. You made jokes with the driver, but I could see that inside you were suffering. Making him laugh was how you suffered. When we got to the grave and they lowered the empty coffin, you let out a noise like an animal. I had never heard anything like it. You were a wounded animal. The noise is still in my ears. It was what I had spent forty years looking for, what I wanted my life and life story to be. Your mother took you to the side and held you. They shoveled dirt into your father's grave.
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